


Until we touch the burning sun

by D20Owlbear



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Available to Podfic, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale won't let go, Demonic touch burns angels, Despite the hardships they're in love, Gen, M/M, Other, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2021-01-13 09:30:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21241901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/D20Owlbear/pseuds/D20Owlbear
Summary: If hellfire burns angels, then every touch burns Aziraphale. But he doesn’t mind, not really.





	Until we touch the burning sun

Breath caught in ineffective lungs, catching and gasping with every breath as burnt offerings offered upon altars anointed in holy oils, so that the smoke rises to the heavens in a desperate cry for help, for benediction, for any mercy there might be. But here there was none, no quarter given, no clemency. None was wanted. Angelic face turned upwards, not to GOD but instead to what ought to be below, eyes sharp enough to cut and fingertips impious enough to enkindle.

Here there were only hands over ivory skin, leaving burning, blistering flesh in their wake. Each touch was agony and each caress meant to soothe only brought new heights of pain. Sweet, blissful agony that transcended the mortal coil only to be brought back and burrow into his soul. But all of it was worth it, it had to be, it _must_ be, for if it wasn’t what had been the point at all? It was worth it. And that was the end of it. 

White feathers burned in residual Hellfire, the heat coursing like molten gold through veins just beneath the thin veneer of skin sparked at each touch. The holy and the profane in constant battle and here, so that the holy would not harm it was dampened and the profane left its seal upon this angelic tabernacle. They slide together, slick and perfectly fitted, one burning within and the other without, each bearing the burden of Hell on soul and skin. Each turning it from its evil in their own way, twisting it into Love even as cries were wrenched from soft lips in exquisite torment the likes Hell had never seen.

Every gentle touch pulled gasps from his lips, every soft look burned into his very soul, and left their marks on him there as surely as on his body. It was worth it, to finally love and be loved and feel nothing but this burning flagellation in return. No fear of being caught out, no worries of demonic marks being found, instead he could revel in these. Instead, he would celebrate the extant chains around him which he bound to himself so wholly and chose for himself this weight-which-was-not-a-weight at all but rather made his heart soar as surely as if it had wings itself. These unintentional possessions and signs of the dominion over him, to which he surrendered to gleefully. Here there was bliss in this hiss of sharp breath caught behind grit teeth as casual fingertips find his hand.

Time seemed endless and boundless, nothing of it would affect him or them, nothing of it could. It was weak before them, their hands clasped and burning with fire and heat and all the passion of smoldering cinders which might seem cool but only waited for a new spark to rekindle, all its heat hidden below artful surface. Here they burst forth and became as one in the eyes of the Host above and below, here they stayed. Here they could linger and love.

Here he could pull away to ice his palms on a cool glass of water and bury himself ever closer into the agonizing heat of freedom in the next moment, palms burning with the touch of fire that had only ever felt holy on him.

And here there was Crowley, a demon. His demon. Whose touch burned him like red coals and painted his skin in burns that bled with golden ichor and drew auric blushes to the surface from beneath smooth skin. Whose touch he would never have to be without again, whose touch he would never suffer the slings and arrows of misfortune to be without again. Who he would never have to liken to the faraway stars again, separated by insurmountable voids, unreachable and cold.

Because he was Icarus, foolish enough to reach up forever. But never foolish enough to fall. He would beat his wings and cede to submission to forever touch his dearest, most darling, most beloved, burning sun.


End file.
